With a big, goofy grin on his face, he sped quickly away from his house. A moment later he made a right onto Dale Street, the street that would eventually take him straight to the train tracks. Shortly, he came to the intersection of Valencia Avenue, which was a four-way stop.
He passed some warehouses and the famous sticker factory—heaven on earth as far as students from his school were concerned, where reams and reams of stickers were discarded, stickers that eventually found their way onto almost anything in the city of Fullerton.
He soon came to Commonwealth Avenue. The light was red. He pressed the crosswalk button and when the enthusiastic-looking walking figure appeared, he crossed the street—and found himself across from Fullerton Airport, with its rows and rows of Christmas tree lights paralleling the runways.
Here, Dale Street curved and Judd found himself at Artesia Boulevard. The traffic light here was also red, and Judd waited patiently. He thought about the train. He wondered if he would see it tonight. He also thought about the sandwich.
After crossing the boulevard, he came to an industrial park. Behind high chain-linked fences with strips of white plastic weaved through them, loomed the massive heads of heavy machinery that always reminded Judd of dinosaurs. A true Jurassic Park. At least, in his imagination.
He sped by the industrial park, giving the heavy machinery only a cursory glance, all too aware that they seemed to be staring back at him.
Just before him, perhaps twenty feet away, were two lamp posts on either side of the road. A welcomed sight. Behind the lights was a hundred or so acres of pitch-black farmland. Somewhere to the right, just off the road, was a rickety old fruit stand whose sign read simply: Fresh Strawberries.
Before the fruit stand, however, were the train tracks, where the tracks ran between the industrial park and the farmland. He stopped his bike in the bright pool of light where Dale Street crossed the tracks. The red-and-white striped arms that rose up into the night—arms that, when parallel, held back traffic—were actually not very red and white at all. In fact, they looked as if they’d been through a thousand sandstorms.
It was just after midnight, according to his cell phone. The train always came after twelve, but never at the same time. Sometimes it came around three in the morning, waking him with a start.
He pulled his bike off the narrow single lane of Dale Street and headed down a dirt embankment. The half moon above glowed brightly, and Judd was able to see clearly enough.
This is damned stupid, he thought, looking nervously into the vast farmland around him. He had forgotten about his sandwich. No matter what anyone says, a train comes through here. I hear the darn thing every single night.
Actually, he told himself, getting off his bike and leaning it into a bush where he hoped it was hidden well enough from the street, what’s really stupid is coming here alone.
Yet, he really didn’t know anyone well enough to ask them to come out with him to the train tracks at night. He hadn’t done very well in the friend-making department and anyone he called a friend would have given him too much crap.
Why do you need someone with you, anyway? he asked himself as he stepped away from his bike. You scared? You scared of being alone at night only ten minutes from home?
Actually, yes.
He was almost as tall as the tallest scrub tree that crowded near the tracks, and what possessed him to walk into this mini-forest he didn’t know.
He did so now, and his perception of his surroundings suddenly changed: he no longer felt as if he was in the suburbia of Orange County, but in an actual countryside with woods that could have gone on for miles. Although he couldn’t have told you exactly why he entered the dark shielding of the trees, he was pleased that he had conquered some of his fear.
Granted, he hadn’t gotten very far into the copse of stunted trees, but he was till feeling fairly pleased with himself. By God, he was going to get to the bottom of things.
The trees crowded near the tracks, and soon he came upon a small clearing. He spied a large rock and had just decided to sit there when a thought scooted across his thoughts just long enough to register: he was in a dark, hidden place where different rules applied—rules that didn’t give a damn if you were only ten minutes from home.
At that troubling thought, Judd looked around nervously. He shivered even though the night was quite warm.
To take his mind off the fear that was threatening to overwhelm him, he shrugged out of his backpack and found his sandwich. He also grabbed his flashlight and held it in his lap. Just having the flashlight nearby made him feel better.
He opened the baggie and was soon eating, voraciously. He was nearly done with the PB&J when he heard a sound behind him. He gasped, snapped his head around quickly, fumbling for his flashlight. He clicked it on, but no one was there.
No doubt a mouse, or a rat.
To his dismay, his mostly masticated sandwich had slid off his lap and now lay in the dirt. Damn.
It was suddenly very cold. How did it get so cold? As he rubbed his arms and looked down at the sad remains of his sandwich, Judd was suddenly certain that he had made a very bad mistake.
No, he nearly shouted. Not a mistake. I hear that damn train. I hear it every night. I need to know if it’s real. I need to know why I hear it so clearly. Why me, and no one else?
So, he wrapped his arms around his body and waited, and realized all over again that a friend would have been welcomed just about now.
The tracks were just out of sight from where he sat in the clearing. He looked at his watch: twelve-twenty. He thought about his bike and hoped it wouldn’t be too hard to find.
He yawned mightily and rubbed his eyes. When he was done rubbing his eyes, he saw someone standing at the edge of the clearing.
Judd squeaked.
It was a man. A bum, actually. Judd squeaked again.
The man took a step forward and Judd nearly wet himself. The man said, “You here for the train, boy?”
Judd couldn’t speak.
“Answer me, boy.”
“Yes,” he finally said, although it sounded too high-pitched to be his own voice.
The man nodded and stepped forward again. “What’s your name?”
Judd bit down on his lips, stopping himself from saying his name, and wondered if that was a good idea anyway. It’s just your name, a voice inside his head said. How much harm could he do with your name?
“Judd,” he finally said.
“Nice to meet you, Judd. I’m Reggie.”
They both stared at each other some more. Judd was suddenly certain that something very, very bad was going to happen to him. Reggie stepped closer, his face still hidden mostly in shadows. Judd shifted his weight. He was ready to sprint in a heartbeat.